


Petit Papa Noël

by realmzenith



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Fluff, M/M, Reunions, a) airports, b) their apartments, but its completely sfw dont worry, c) everywhere?, congrats, theyre rlly gay, ur in the right place, were you craving ridiculous thousands year old men being sappy at, youve been warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-17 10:22:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13074867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realmzenith/pseuds/realmzenith
Summary: Ivan and Francis spend the day decorating Francis' Paris apartment, but the question lies in whether or not the decorating itself will actually manage to happen.





	Petit Papa Noël

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya, all. B) This is actually a secret santa gift for [ladystardusty](https://ladystardusty.tumblr.com), but no matter who you are, I hope you enjoy this little Christmas fic.

The rain drizzles down upon the Parisian streets, blurring the windows of the airport terminal and beating out a steady rhythm on the glass. The room is alight with the sounds of people reuniting, French, English, Spanish- a myriad of languages few care to filter into coherence, but amongst the joyful multitudes a red sweatered man throws the end of his scarf across his shoulder and strides stoically along through the endless crowds, the click-click-click of his carry on echoing along the tiles. While the passer bys throw odd looks in the direction of his bright reindeer-themed attire and exceptional stature he remains indifferent to their stares. Ivan Braginsky has only one thing on his mind- the endless blue eyes of the man he’s come to see, so instead, he continues to scan the sea of waiting faces.

When he spots him, Ivan breaks effortlessly into a smile, reveling in the way Francis lights up as their eyes meet. He knows Francis cannot stand anything that isn’t _esthétique,_ and while Ivan himself isn’t particularly fond of the so-called “ugly Christmas sweaters,” the chiding roll of Francis’ eyes is amusing enough to make up for the hassle of wearing one. Ivan hurries forward, practically picking up his carry on by the long handle, and meets Francis halfway who rushes up and tosses his arms around Ivan’s neck, smiling in the way that always puts a stop to his heart. Francis tugs him down and kisses both his cheeks, grinning against his skin.

“My god, you look like a riot.” Francis whispers in hushed French, the light words music to Ivan’s ears. “I should have just pretended I have no idea who you are. What will people say if they see me with a walking fashion disaster? You are lucky that your handsome face distracts from this messy outfit.”

Francis pulls back, letting his hands slide down Ivan’s shoulders and arms as he untangles himself from around his neck, smiling as he does. “And you are still the same as ever; tall, unfairly attractive, perfect.”

Ivan knows he’s still smiling as he accepts Francis’ arm looping through his own and leans down to whisper back in French. “You flatter me, dearest, but I would have to disagree.” He straightens up and raises his voice from a whisper, his face the picture of genuine belief. “You can’t tell me you think this sweater isn’t becoming of me? I thought the giant reindeer would go well with-” Ivan pauses. “-my eyes?”

“ _My god._ What will we do with you?” Francis laughs, pulling him over to where the taxi cabs are waiting.

The weather outside is chilly, the wind biting and the rain falling in sheets by the time they reach Francis’ apartment. A number of men and women hurry past, their umbrellas like black tops in the streets, taunting the one man rushing by with just his briefcase held over his head. When the taxi parks, Ivan has already produced a handful of euros discreetly from his pocket. He manages to shove them into their driver's hands before Francis has the time to process. Once Francis does, he sighs and smiles, and Ivan grins back in a self-satisfied manner.

It's a wild rush out the door, the sidewalks drenched and the rain still pouring hard. He shoos Francis over to front door of the apartment before hurrying to the trunk, popping it and grabbing his carry on by the strap on the side. Bits of rainy sludge are leaping up and clinging to his shoes as the water hits the puddles on the street, and his hair is doing a poor job of keeping his head from becoming wet. He slams the trunk closed, turns on tail and dashes up the steps to the door Francis has opened for him. The taxi wheels start rolling, throwing back muddy water to the place where Ivan had been only moments before, and squealing down the street as the apartment door swings back closed.

“You’re soaked!” Francis reaches up to pat his cheek. “You’re wise though, bringing one of these hard cases over the cloth ones. Smart man.”

“I prefer things to last, and dry clothes are always a plus,” Ivan says, “Shall we head up?”

Francis takes his hand, looking ready to pull him over to the stairs, but instead stops and raises his brows. “Why are your hands so cold, my love?” He cups Ivan’s one hand in both of his. “I swear I’ll have to buy you gloves for Christmas if you keep up like this. They’re always so, so cold.” He shakes his head and turns back, holding him still with just one hand. “Inside you can put them by the heater.”

“Whatever you say, _Franya._ ” Ivan leans over, wrapping his free arm around Francis’ head and kissing the top of it.

Francis laughs softly before tugging him up the stairs. His apartment is just on the second floor, so they take the stairs instead of the elevator. It saves time if you run; it saves you a messy situation if you end up forgetting make out sessions are best left for inside the home.

However, it ends up as a race up the stairs, the two of them releasing each other’s hands and dashing up. It only takes a few steps for Ivan to take the lead, his longer legs giving him a clear advantage over the much shorter Francis. He reaches the landing first, standing triumphantly by the door, but by the time he’s produced his key to the apartment, Francis has reached him, his own key brandished vengefully. Francis breaks into the area between Ivan and the wall and plunges his key into the keyhole, not bothering with so much as a glance back.

The lock clicks, and Francis swings the door open.

“You-” He says between lungfuls of breaths. “-are too fast.”

Ivan begins to follow him inside and hums, setting his carry on down on the floor. “Or maybe you are too slo-”

The ground becomes suddenly closer, and lips meet his own. Francis has tugged him down by his scarf and kissed him squarely on his lips, his free hand carded through the back of his hair. Ivan sets his hands on his waist and kisses him back for a hot second before they both pull back, sucking in air. They’re both out of breath from the rushing up the stairs, but Ivan cracks a grin and dips back down, catching Francis’ lips in another kiss.

“Did you miss me that much?”

Francis sets his hand on his chest, smirking in amusement. “Oh, please. It’s not like you aren’t just as bad.”

Ivan shrugs noncommittally, leaning down for one more.

Francis accepts it for half a second before pushing him up by his chest. He tuts, laughing despite himself. “I love you, too, Ivan, but we do need to put up the decorations like we promised we would. If we don't stop this now we will never get anything done.”

Ivan reluctantly recollects his hands from Francis’ back, looking like he'd rather not accept the logic of his statement. He sets his hand on Francis’ shoulder, staring melodramatically out through the darkening window. “What has the world come to? Francis Bonnefoy, the country of romance, rejecting affection from his lover? It is a twisted world, indeed...”

“Then what is this, mister?” Francis taps a finger on his nose, one brow raised. “Ivan Braginsky, the big, tough nation of Russia, seeking to bestow this sort of affection on me? The world works in strange ways, my love, but right now, we are off to decorating!” Francis snakes his arm around Ivan’s waist and pulls him towards the sitting room without a beat left for complaints. Ivan follows along, only to stop in his tracks at the sight that greets him.

Scattered across the floor is a mishmash of boxes and lights strewn this way and that without rhyme or reason. A small tree is set primly in its stand, the tree skirt placed around it, but that is the extent of order in the room. The bag of ornaments is half opened at the side, and a little ceramic nativity scene is half unwrapped on the floor. Two wreaths are lying next to the armchair, and various tinsel, candles and other knick knacks can be viewed from within the other box. Ivan’s eyebrows shoot up, and he purses his lips at the sight.

“I wasn't aware Paris was in the line of any recent tornadoes.”

Francis laughs. “Let us just say, I attempted to start, but something came up, and I was unable to finish.”

“It wasn't our call last night, was it?”

“Mm, I don't kiss and tell.” He pats his cheek again before slipping over to pick up the box of ornaments, smiling in a very telling way.

Ivan shakes his head in disbelief. “This is why I say it's absurd to call me the ridiculous one.”

“Yes, yes. Take the ornaments now! Sooner we start the better it will be! Fragile ones go further up top, but-” He sets down the box and squints at the string of lights on the floor. “-lights first… Where is the end of this?”

Ivan drops to a knee beside him, following the cord to the plug. “Found it. Which outlet should we put it in?”

“Oh, hm.” Francis points to the one by the couch. “That one?” He waves a hand, already turning towards something else. “Yes, that one is fine. I'll turn on the music.”

As “Douce Nuit” begins to play in the background, they both begin to decorate, starting with the lights on the tree. Gold tinsel lines the countertops, and the nativity scene is set up by the television. The tree is properly lit, decked with classy ornaments and white, little lights. By the time they're nearly finished the sun has dipped below the horizon, and Paris has become a city of artificial light and almost-sleet rain.

Francis lights the last scented candle, the soft light of the tree and the candles emanating throughout the room along with the scent of gingerbread and peppermint

Ivan picks up the star from the bottom of the ornament bag and hold it up for Francis to see. “Did you want to put it up?”

Francis blows out the match, tosses it into the trashcan, and saunters over. He kisses Ivan’s cheek and closes his hand back around the star. “Go ahead, my love. I'll find us some wine. We can watch something or just enjoy the rain. Maybe we could make some of the pretty paper snowflakes for the windows. Sounds good, mm?”

Ivan nods, smiling as he watches him head over to the kitchen. He sets the star atop the tree and takes a couple steps back, surveying their work with pride. The window curtains have been thrown open, leaving Paris and its twinkling lights spread out in a grand display before them. The candlelight flickers against the walls and the Christmas lights strung up on the tree exude soft warmth. Even the song in the background is reminiscent of a lullaby as the young night envelopes them. Ivan turns, nodding slowly in approval.

The sound of a cork being removed and footsteps in his direction warn him of Francis’ arrival.

“ _Petit Papa Noël._ ” He says, wrapping his arms around Ivan’s waist from the back, a bottle of wine and two glasses in hand. “That’s what this song is called. You looked like you were wondering.”

“Ah. _Père Noël. Ded Moroz._ ” Ivan takes the bottle and once Francis has taken to removing himself from Ivan to set the glasses on the table, he shuffles towards the couch, a slight smile on his face. “ _Father Christmas._ ”

"Indeed."

When Ivan seats himself on the couch, Francis joins him with his leg thrown over the other and snuggles into Ivan’s arm situated ‘round the back. He leans forward on the side Francis isn’t resting on and pours them both a glass, settling back in and handing Francis his. It’s when his gaze falls back on the scene outside his window that he can’t help but notice how the rain has stopped coming down at slanted, watery angles, but instead, is drifting down in fluffy white shapes. He watches in amazement as they land on their porch, the barest hints of a snowy morning to await them already present. 

“It’s snowing.” He whispers.

“ _Ded Moroz,_ ” Francis says, “Grandfather Frost, my dear, not Father Christmas. You brought him with you.”

He pulls Francis closer and kisses the top of his head. “Maybe so, but at least we know for sure that tomorrow we’ll have a snowy Paris.”

* * *

 

_Petit papa Noël_

_Quand tu descendras du ciel_

_Avec des jouets par milliers_

_N'oublie pas mon petit soulier._

_Mais avant de partir_

_Il faudra bien te couvrir_

_Dehors tu vas avoir si froid_

_C'est un peu à cause de moi._

**Author's Note:**

> Petit Papa Noël is a popular French Christmas song! The excerpt at the end is the chorus which translates to roughly: 
> 
> Little Father Christmas  
> When you come down from the sky  
> With toys by the thousands  
> Don't forget my little shoe  
> But before leaving  
> You must cover yourself well  
> Outside you will be so cold  
> It's a little because of me
> 
> Of course, don't quote me on that because I am neither French, nor do I speak French.
> 
> Père Noël is Father Christmas in French, and Ded Moroz is the Russian equivalent of Father Christmas though as Francis said, he's usually referred to as Grandfather Frost, etc. in English translations.
> 
> Additionally, crèche de Noël, or nativity scene, is a common French Christmas decoration along with things such as the wreath.


End file.
